Sequel to Alone With The Dead. Gryphon is the vessel for poltergeists, restless dead seeking resolution, a task he never wanted and barely understands. But is he alone? He discovers he might not be and that his fellow vessel might want him dead.

The
first night into his trip, Gryphon realized it was hurricane season
in Florida.

He
was in a bar where they inexplicably had the Weather Channel on the
t.v. over the bar, even though the weather outside was pretty
typical. But some guy with bad hair and an unfortunate jacket was
talking about how Florida hadn't finished cleaning up from the last
hurricane, yet there was another one coming in.

It
was mutually decided that they would wait until hurricane season was
over before going to Florida. Mr. Aronofsky had spent most of his
life in Philadelphia, and had no desire to experience a hurricane,
and Gryph wasn't thrilled with the prospect either. He could just
imagine getting possessed by a someone who had been killed by a
falling tree or a flying toilet, and it seemed like a joy he should
save. Good things came to those who waited, right?

He
was in Portland, Oregon by this time, and thought he might hang
around another day or two. It was another good, artsy fartsy liberal
city that tried to add a touch of the bohemian to its otherwise
anonymous cityscape. It was like Seattle, but farther from the
Canadian border. Besides, he felt better wherever there was a boho
touch, as that was the atmosphere he grew up in.

He
thought about going back to Seattle, back to Naheed, but he just told
her he was going, and it might seem stalkerish. He couldn't afford
to get his hopes up anyways; relationships were for normal people,
not people full of dead people gifted with erratic telekinesis.

Gosh,
that sounded sane.

As
it turned out, Portland had its own ugly weather system to deal with.
A big storm blew in while he decided to loiter, not a hurricane but
something with strong winds and buckets of rain - an American version
of a mild typhoon - and he found it difficult to sleep in his car
while it was being buffeted by the angry winds, and pelted with fat
drops of rain that struck with the force of pebbles. Also, there was
apparently a minor leak in one of the back windows, getting him
splashed a bit. The others convinced him to use some of his cash to
get a cheap motel room, at least for the night.

So
that's why he was in a Motel 6, eating microwave popcorn and
drinking diet Pepsi, and watching a repeat of Buffy The Vampire
Slayer as rain lashed the window like hail, and branches slapped
against the siding like a drunken man punching at shadows. Gryphon
had to admit it was kind of a novelty to have his own room, and watch
a t.v. that wasn't in a bar.

And
strip down to your shorts while doing it, Ruby noted. Do that in a
bar, and they'd kick you out. Or, some skeevy guy would shove a
five down your jockeys .

"Thanks
for the mental imagery," he said, taking a gulp of his pop.
"Although, it would be more action than I've had … well, ever."

And
there goes the shirt, Hugh said, as the actor playing Angel showed up
shirtless. If this were a drinking game, he could take a shot now.

He
could bite me anytime, Ruby said. For free even.

Me
too, Hugh agreed.

I
get nervous when they agree on anything, Mr. Aronofsky said.

"Me
too," Gryphon said, shoving a handful of popcorn in his mouth. It
was too salty, and had some of that weird butter flavored stuff on
it, but the more he ate, the hungrier he realized he was.

"I
don't care." But quiet time, it seemed, came just in time for the
commercial break, and there was an ad for what must have been a local
talk show, as he'd never heard of it before. This woman with a
frighteningly botox'ed face (it looked like you could bounce a
quarter off her skin and send it straight over the roof) and hair
that looked like a well groomed badger crouched on her scalp, talked
about their guest on the next show, Madam Paula, a "spiritualist"
who claimed to talk to the dead. "Bullshit," Gryphon snapped
irritably, lobbing an unpopped kernel at the screen. It hit it square
and bounced off, getting lost in the carpet.

These
people just crawl out of the woodwork, don't they? Mr. Aronofsky
mused.

Why
don't you do that? Hugh suddenly asked. You actually know dead
people. Go make some money off it already.

"I
don't think so," he scoffed. "Besides, I don't talk to dead
people. I just get possessed by poltergeists, who never know when to
shut up, and occasionally use me to kill the people who killed them.
I really don't want to carry a business card to that effect."

You
can do more than that, Mr. Aronofsky insisted. Remember at that show?
You knew that woman's son was dead.

"Everyone
in that audience had a dead someone. That's why they were there,
and that's how that fuck makes his money, by exploiting their
grief. I'm not gonna do that; I don't care how broke I am. That's
just fucking sick."

You
knew things you couldn't have known, Mr. Aronofsky continued. You
knew his name, you knew how he died, you knew that putz was lying to
that woman about him. You sense the dead, you sense where the bodies
are buried - isn't it possible you're picking up much more than
you ever realized?

He
shrugged and searched the popcorn bag for another edible piece, but
there was nothing left but the unpopped remnants. Not only did he not
want to talk about it, he didn't want to think about it. The lamp
on the bedside table flickered, and he said, "Knock it off."

I
don't think we did that, Hugh replied.

The
rain was pounding against the window like it was desperate to get in,
and the wind was a dull and angry roar, making the siding creak like
it was scared. There was another flicker in the bedside lamp, and
then the power died all at once, the lamp and t.v. shutting
themselves off, leaving him sitting on the bed in the dark, listening
to the storm rage outside. "Fuck."

The
good thing about living in a car is you don't have to worry about
power outages, Ruby said. He supposed that was sarcastic.

He
sat there for a few minutes, finishing his soda and waiting for the
storm to abate or the power to come back on, but neither appeared to
be a possibility. He sighed heavily, then slid off the bed, aware of
where he'd left his clothes. He hardly had to feel around much at
all.

What
do you think you're doing? Ruby asked suspiciously.

"There's
a bar up the street. It looks like a real dive, but if I'm going to
be waiting in the dark, I'd rather do it with beer."

See,
what did I tell you? Taneesha snapped. Punk ass drunk.

Well,
at least he's clean, Ruby replied.

And
he was too. The first thing he did, after getting over having a
bathroom all his own, was take a very long shower. His fingers were
still a bit pruney.

The
sun had only recently set - it wasn't quite seven yet - but it
seemed dead (no pun intended) outside, the violent storm having
chased everyone sensible inside. It was dark too, as all the blocks
he could see had no lights whatsoever, and he thought this was what a
nighttime world would be like; it would be this contained, this
quiet, and only the dead or their rides would be walking the street.

You
sound drunk already, Ruby interjected. Sure you feel well?

"Honestly?
I'm a little dizzy." And he was, he had been for a while, but he
assumed it was a general giddiness in not sleeping in the Buick for
once, or the sickly sweet floral room freshener they used at the
motel. That stuff could strip paint off the walls.

The
wind was strong enough that he could lean into it and have it hold
him up, but the rain was hitting him like gravel, and it really
wasn't that pleasant. As he reached the corner, he saw a
fluorescent green flyer hanging on to a crosswalk pole for dear life,
a ragged corner flapping violently in the breeze. He caught the
letters "P-S-Y" in big letters, and just had to look.

It
was an ad for a "psychic fair" (fourth annual), taking place at
something called the Brenmer Pavilion. The name and address meant
nothing to him, as he didn't know Portland at all, but the "fair"
started today, and went until Sunday. There was a truly goofy
illustration of a floating pyramid and a meditating guy with his two
eyes closed and his third eye open, and he ripped it off the pole.

Hey,
there's a place to start, Ruby said. Go there and say you talk to
dead people. People will probably line up to talk to you.

"I
was hoping people who claimed to speak to the dead were already
there," he admitted, shoving the wet piece of paper into his
pocket. "I wanted to go chew them a new one."

Oh
good, you have a crusade now, Hugh said acidly.

"I
need a hobby."

The
bar was indeed a tiny little dive, a small wooden frame place that
looked like it may have once been a convenience store, and inside it
was almost comically dark, much darker than outside. But there were
several people inside, all men, and there were many lit candles -
mostly those citronella types in glass jars - scattered about, tiny
puddles of illumination that hardly cut the gloom. Still, a couple of
guys were playing pool by candlelight.

The
bartender was a bald mixed race man, with dark skin and Asian eyes,
who also had a nose ring that was connected to his earring by a
slender golden chain, and seemed to have a tattoo on the top of his
head, but in the darkness it was almost impossible to tell what it
was.

He
had a couple of beers that tasted little better than piss, but it
gave him a small but pleasant feeling that wasn't quite a buzz, but
was close enough. He also ate all the peanuts in the basket on the
bar, but there weren't that many left, so he didn't feel like a
pig. He ordered a vodka, just to mix things up, and then, because
this place was so quiet and depressing, he asked the bartender how to
get to the Brenmer Pavilion.

The
guy, fearsome appearance aside, was actually very nice, and drew him
a little map on a cocktail napkin. It was a couple of miles from
here, and the guy at the end of the bar suddenly said, "They might
have power in that quadrant."

The
bartender looked down at him, chain shaking and shimmering. "Why's
that?"

The
guy, who was just a lumpy shadow, sighed wearily. "From Brook
Street to Madison Court, this is Portland Pacific Power territory.
From Rose Avenue to 28th Street, it's Columbia Power & Water
territory. Just 'cause Portland Pacific's had an outage doesn't
mean Columbia's had one too."

"Huh,"
the bartender said, an acknowledgement that what the guy said was
kind of interesting, but only if you were absolutely starved for
company. Gryphon assumed the guy was some sort of Cliff Claven
wannabe, or he actually worked for one of those power companies.
Which begged the question why he wasn't out there helping restore
power.

Would
you want to be out there working? Hugh said.

A
damn good point.

He
thanked the bartender, gulped down his vodka, and ventured out into
the storm again, returning to the motel to get his car. Hitting the
vodka had improved his mood measurably; he almost felt like he was
floating as he walked down the empty, rain lashed streets to the
motel parking lot.

That
wasn't my fault, he replied archly. I was hit by some schmuck who
didn't know red meant stop.

"I'm
fine, guys, don't worry about it." He didn't know if that was
true or not, but he felt so good he didn't care. After having died
- well, at least in memories - about a dozen times, it was hard to be
afraid of anything.

He
managed to get there just fine, in spite of all the nagging going on
in his head, and the Brenmer Pavilion turned out to be not so much a
concert hall as a place where you had boat shows - tiny boat shows.
And the guy at the bar had been right, this "quadrant" still had
electricity, as the streetlights were still functioning, as were the
traffic lights at the main intersection. But by the way the lights
swung in the breeze, it would be a lucky thing if they kept the power
for much longer.

In
spite of that - or perhaps because of it - the parking lot was
surprisingly full, and he had to park far away from the Pavilion and
walk in. But by that point he felt like he was drifting, being blown
along like a dried leaf. Are you sure you haven't been smoking pot
behind our backs? Ruby asked. That made Gryphon laugh.

You
had to pay eight bucks to get in, which seemed unfair, but as soon as
he was inside the slightly drafty pavilion, he was approached by a
heavy set woman in a floral patterned dress. She had wavy, dyed
blonde hair and an open face, and wore what looked like a crown of
knotty twigs. If she had been fifteen years older, brunette, and a
bit thinner, she could have been his mother. "Welcome, truth
seeker," she said, then held out a fan towards him. "Pick a
card."

Oh
boy, did every entrant get a complimentary magic trick? He chose a
card at random and looked at it, a little surprised at what was on
the face. It was roughly the size and shape of a regular playing
card, but instead of the three of clubs or something else expected
and mundane, it had on it that dog headed Egyptian god. "Uh, what's
this?" He asked, giving her back the card.

She
took it, guileless blue eyes wide with wonder. "Oh, you got Anubis,
the psychopomp."

"The
what now?"

"Psychopomp,
it means conductor of souls," she explained. "Not many people
choose this one."

Conductor
of souls? Ruby piped up. Hey, we have a new name for you.

"Is
that bad or good?"

The
way she paused made him suspect she was lying, or simply forgot. "Oh,
it's good. It means you're a generous and old soul, very
protective of others."

He
gave her a weak smile. "Not by choice, honey. Trust me." He then
walked away, before her puzzled look could morph into a question.

The
"psychic fair" was a sea of tables and booths, loosely arranged
in a grid work pattern for maximum occupancy and density, and ran the
gamut of people selling odd products and services, to your more
traditional astrological forecasting, Tarot card and palm reading
tables. It was really hard to know where to start.

You're
not going to cause a scene, are you? Mr. Aronofsky asked.

"Me?
No," he whispered under his breath. But not nearly quietly enough,
as a couple passing by turned and gave him a funny look. He smiled at
them, and said, "Conversing with the spirits."

You
stop this now, Mr. Aronofsky scolded. If I have to take you over and
walk you out of here, I will.

"Lighten
up. I don't have a lot of fun." He scanned the crowd, looking for
… well, hell, he wasn't sure exactly … but his eyes settled on
a fairly large sign that read : "Spirit Guides". "And that
looks like a good place to start."

Mr.
Aronofsky groaned. There are times when I'm glad I'm dead.

Gryphon
could sympathize. But it wasn't about to keep him from biting those
bastard's heads off.

He
wended his way through the tables, through the people having their
runes cast and chakras read, and made his way towards the Spirit
Guides booth, his mild buzz building up to a small yet palpable
belligerence. About ten feet from the table, he saw a guy in jeans
and a plaid shirt holding some kind of electronic device in his
hands. Gryphon wasn't sure what it was, especially since it was too
big to be a cell phone. "Hey Shane," the guy said, looking over
at his shoulder at whoever was manning the table. "I think we got a
ghost in here."

He
moved the machine around, and then looked up and stared Gryphon
straight in the eyes.

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